Beginnings
by sassyhelkat
Summary: This is a prequel to my other story, The Swing. I'm going to be going through Cheska's life with Irons and Ian, following the trials she endures and the triumphs she achieves. This is where it's all starting...


**Beginnings**

"Control the Witchblade, you control the world, Ian." There was no response, but the clipped British accent had been heard with perfect clarity by the young boy trailing behind the speaker. The child's head was bowed; his dark chocolate brown eyes focused on the pavement beneath his feet, which were still able to avoid all other passersby that were walking towards him without looking. His long hair flowed loose around his shoulders, the ringlets framing and shadowing his face from all who looked at him, giving him some semblance of privacy.

The man he was following couldn't have been more his opposite, striding with his head up, his ice cold crystal blue eyes piercing and staring straight through the people he passed, conveying obviously that they weren't worth his time. People seemed to clear a path in front of him, parting like the Red Sea did for Moses, although that analogy would make anybody that knew Kenneth Irons laugh until they cried, and make the church itself shudder in horror.  
  
"The Witchblade is violent, it doesn't care who it harms in its quest for what it wants," Irons kept talking without turning his head or acknowledging the boy to whom he was speaking, and after a pause, he continued, while brushing his fingers through his silvery hair, seemingly content with listening to his own voice, "It is the woman who wields the Blade, she is the one to be controlled and- Ian, are you still listening to me?"

The young boy had seemed to perk up a bit, lifting his head and tilted it slightly, listening to something only he could hear, and before his master or his better judgment could stop him, he turned and strode off into a side alleyway with purpose in his steps.  
  
Irons was irritated by this breach in conduct, and he growled impatiently as he scowled and followed him, calling for the boy to come back immediately.  
  
"Ian... Ian... Ian Nottingham, where are you?" Kenneth stopped at the entrance to the alley, disdainfully looking around at the garbage strewn on the ground, visibly unwilling to follow the boy further into the dirt and grime.  
  
"Here, sir. I've found something...," the soft voice answered him from further into the alley, and Irons cursed inwardly, before stepping into the alley after him.  
  
"You can't keep it, Ian, I don't care how much you want it," he stopped a few feet in, when the stench got to be too much, and he winced, his nostrils flaring as he snorted at the smell.

A baby's small cry suddenly pierced through the din of the crowds outside the alley, and the constant rustle of some sort of vermin fleeing the intruders in their habitat seemed to stop for a heartbeat, and Kenneth's frown deepened.  
  
"That had better not be what I think it is, Ian...," he snarled, and Ian stepped around the dumpster that was further on down the alley, approaching with something bundled in his jacket, something he held tightly to his chest and refused to look away from.  
  
Kenneth's jaw ground as his eyes grew darker, and he dipped his head to glare at Ian from under his brows, "Ian, you can take her back and put her where you found her, right this minute."

"Sir... She was in a trash can, just over there...," Ian looked up at his master for a split second, then back down at the baby in his arms.  
  
"I don't care if she was on the train tracks, she is not yours, and I demand you put her back," Kenneth's voice was stern and frigid, turning to go back to the street, knowing he was going to have to shower for at least an hour or two to clean away the smell of this alley.  
  
"No, sir."

The response startled him so much, Kenneth halted, blinking, and he turned to look back at Ian, dumbfounded, "Excuse me?"

Ian averted his eyes from Kenneth's, just as shocked with himself, wondering why in the world he'd just defied his master, but he just didn't feel like he could turn his back on this child, not now, not when he'd held her in his arms.  
  
"Excuse me?" Irons repeated, turning around completely to face Ian, wondering what was going on in the boy's head.  
  
"She'd die, sir... If I left her there... We have more than enough room at the manor...," Ian murmured softly, clutching the baby tighter to him.  
  
"That is not the issue, Nottingham. She is not yours. She is not mine. So therefore, she belongs to someone else. It is not your business, nor your concern what happens to her, and I demand that you put her back where you found her," Kenneth watched the boy closely, his eyes narrowed dangerously as he judged him and waited for his reaction.  
  
Ian thought fast. He didn't want to be openly defiant, but he had to do something, "Sir... If you raise her, you could possibly make her into a Pretender, if the next wielder is not so easily controlled...," Ian continued, looking up a little from under his brows at his master.

There was silence for a long moment, during which Kenneth Irons considered a few things. He was shocked at his ward's defiance, something that had caught him completely off guard, which was probably why he briefly considered what Ian had said.  
  
Something about the idea had merit. What if he could make this child a wielder? The Blade could be manipulated to take a new wielder if its chosen one was...Unavailable.

Ian saw the look on Kenneth's face, knowing he was seriously considering it. The baby in his arms squirmed and kicked a bit, crying out, pitifully hungry. Young Nottingham ran a few fingers down her face, trying to calm her, and dark dried flecks of blood came off on his fingertips. She wasn't very old, maybe an hour, two at the most, and Ian had found her in the trashcan in absolutely nothing, nothing to keep her warm from the outside elements. Nobody had even taken the time to clean her up, she'd just been dropped without another thought or any remorse, and something flared deep inside Ian at the thought.

The moment of silence passed, and Ian looked up to Irons in trepidation, his brows furrowed as he clutched the baby tightly.  
  
Irons regarded the boy and the baby in front of him for a second longer, then drew out his cell phone and intoned crisply, "Call Petersen." Raising the phone to his ear, he turned his back on Ian and strode back out to the sidewalk, waiting for his personal driver to pick up his phone.

Halfway through the second ring, a gruff voice answered, "Yes, Mr. Irons?"

"42nd and Broadway. Ten minutes.", Was the curt order and Irons hung up on him. After another moment, he held his phone up again and intoned crisply, "Call, Immo," almost sounding irritated that it couldn't read his mind. This time the phone rang a few times more, and Irons growled impatiently. He didn't like waiting for anything, especially his employees.

"Dr. Immo's personal line, leave a message, I'll call you back, "Immo's voice clicked on and Irons growled loudly.

The machine beeped and Iron's scowl deepened, "Immo, call me now."

He hung up the phone, snarling to himself as he looked around, waiting for his driver to come pick himself and I an up along with the new "addition".

Eight minutes later the limo pulled u pin front of the curb and a tall, well built man in a suit stepped out of the driver's side door. He strode around to Irons' side and he pulled opened the door with a 'click' and stood, waiting for his boss to get in.

Without looking to Ian, Irons slid into the back, his thoughts churning as he considered what to do next with this baby, as Ian dropped next to him, beaming down at the child in his arms. Peterson closed the door behind them, then jogged back to his side and got in and after a moment the limo pulled out onto the street, then the speaker in the back crackled, "Mr. Irons, where would you like to go?" Peterson's deep rough voice inquired and Irons shot a quick glance at the bundle in Ian's arms.

"Back to the manor, Peterson. And quickly," Irons replied, his crystal blue eyes flashing a bit in the dim lights of the limo.

They traveled in silence for a few minutes, before little Ian looked up at Irons, "Sir... what are you going to name her?"

Irons frowned a bit, glancing at the little boy quickly out of the corner of his eye, "I'll think of something later, once we get her cleaned up and I get a proper look at her."

Ian nodded, watching his father and seemed to consider what he'd said, then, looked back down at the infant in his arms. A few moments passed in silence in the back of the limo, and Irons turned to gaze out the window to his left, absently rubbing the double circle scars on the back of his right hand.

Little Ian didn't mind the quiet time, he knew he wouldn't have too much of it when he started taking care of the little girl in his arms. He knew that babies were loud and they cried a lot, Mr. Irons had told him so before in passing, during a conversation in which his father had said Ian had been unusually quiet for a baby in his younger years. But Ian was fully devoted to this task, nothing would sway him from it. If he wanted Mr. Irons to see him as responsible, then he'd have to earn it. And he would, for he wanted Mr. Irons to be proud of him.

The baby squirmed around a bit in Ian's arms, her little feet pushing at Ian's jacket, her tiny hands rubbing at her eyes as she whimpered. She was hungry, Ian could tell, but he wasn't quite sure how he knew.

She whined softly, her small mouth opening as she writhed around a bit more, visibly impatient and irritated that she wasn't being fed, and after a few more seconds of her noise, Irons blinked and rolled his eyes, annoyed that his musing had been interrupted, "Ian..." He began, turning from the window to reprimand his charge and demand he quiet the babe, but before he could finish his sentence, he realized Ian had started humming something, and it took him almost a full minute of listening to figure out the simple tune of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." At the sight of the eight year old boy, hunched over the bundle in his lap, humming away to it, his eyes softened for a moment, his posture becoming less rigid, and he tipped his head to the side slightly as he observed the pair.

The tune tuned eventually worked its way up into soft words in Ian's throat, and, as his voice got stronger, the baby started to calm, seemingly comfortable and trusting with her rescuer now. A smile came to Ian's lips as he watched her dark brown eyes close as she was lulled back to sleep. By now Ian had moved onto another children's song and Irons wondered briefly where he had learned them, as Ian started to sway from side to side, his own eyes closed as he kept singing.

The abrupt, obtrusive ring of Irons cell phone broke the peaceful spell in the back of the limo, startling all three inhabitants. The baby started, her eyes opening as far as they could and she let out a cry that went straight to Irons' spine and made his entire body seize up as he pulled out the offending phone, clicking it on and put it to his ear, "Yes?"

"Sorry about the delay, Mr. Irons, I was..." Immo's voice paused as the baby let out another loud wail, "-Is that a baby?"

Irons growled and rolled his eyes again, shaking his head as he plugged his exposed ear and leaned away from Ian and the noisemaker and answered Immo, "No, I picked up a new dog today, Immo. Of _course _it's a baby! It's-." He stopped speaking when Ian shot him a reproachful look, while he kept trying to quiet the baby and with a sigh Irons conceded and corrected himself, "She's why I called. I need you to do a 'well-baby' exam on her as soon as possible. We're almost back to the manor now, "Irons glanced out the window.

"Of course, sir."

Kenneth could hear the smirk that was on Immo's face in his voice and before Immo could say anything else, Irons clicked the phone off.

Ian finally managed to quiet her as they pulled into the driveway of the massive manor, and not a moment too soon. Irons had gotten to the point of seriously rethinking keeping the baby.

As the limo pulled to a stop, Irons opened his door and slipped out, heading for the doors to the manor without waiting for Ian. Immo was waiting inside for Irons, a brow arched as he looked at his friend and employer, then down at Ian when he came in. A soft smile came to his lips when he saw the baby, and he put out both hands to take her from Ian, who hesitated and looked to Irons. He trusted Immo, yes, at times, he was Ian's only friend, but Ian was already strongly bonded to the child in his arms, and was not eager to surrender her to anybody.

"Ian...," Irons voice was sharp and reproachful, and with a small sigh, Ian handed her over to Immo.

Immo pulled her close, smiling softly as he looked at how protective Ian was over, then looked to Irons and murmured, "She's going to need a blanket, clothes and food, and soon, or it might cause her growth and health to be stunted. I'm going to start her exam, but she must be fed soon..." He dropped off then headed for a side room, Ian toddling after him.

"Ian, go get some towels and a blanket. Now," Irons' voice brought the boy up short and reluctantly, he left Immo's trail and headed for his own room to grab what Irons had asked for, casting looks back to the door until he was out of sight.

With another sigh, Irons pinched the bridge of his nose and turned, calling for the nearest maid, who came scurrying out of the kitchen to meet him, "You need to run to the store, and fetch some baby formula for newborns, and..." he sighed, "Get a crib delivered. Now," and the maid bowed her head, starting for the door at a brisk walk.

For a moment Irons stood alone in the middle of the foyer, considering what to do next, and time seemed to hang, lethargic and sluggish, as if Irons himself had willed it to stop so he could have time to think his thoughts. After another moment, he turned for his study, striding briskly through the double doors and closed them after himself and went to sit in his chair and stare into the roaring flames of his fireplace, the light glinting in his cold, crystal blue eyes.


End file.
